


Whatever our Souls are Made Of

by uwontfeelathing



Series: His and Mine are the Same [1]
Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Love Letters, Romance, Shirbert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22151104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uwontfeelathing/pseuds/uwontfeelathing
Summary: Gilbert and Anne's correspondence and goings-on.These letters/chapters take place after season 3 of Anne with an E.**BE SURE TO CHECK OUT PART TWO OF THIS SERIES: Once in a Golden Hour! xo***********************************************************It was a heady thing, my darling. I cannot say that I regret kissing you so eagerly (and… ahem… frequently…), but I do hope that my behavior didn’t alarm or upset you.Though, in my experience with you thus far, I can venture with some certainty that had my advances had offended you, you would have let me know, and most definitely not by holding my own face in your soft, small hands, and kissing me back with such… I can almost feel you in my arms now, pulling your waist close to me as you…Pardon me, Miss. I think I’ll go for a quick walk around the block.*************************************************************
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe & Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Series: His and Mine are the Same [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608142
Comments: 459
Kudos: 752





	1. Hope is the thing with Feathers

Dear Anne, 

I should be asleep. It is the dead of night after a long journey west. My body is tired - I feel the aching desire for rest in each slow, calming breath. I sat on the train for much too long with the same heavy tiredness I now feel. I have laid in my new bed in my new room with its street-facing window (on a busy thoroughfare in a relatively old boarding house called Sloane House, located on Danforth Avenue about three kilometers away from the medical studies building on the University of Toronto campus - just in-case knowing more about my location helps you picture me better) for hours that have felt like days, and can only come to one conclusion: sleep will not come. Not until I write to you to ask this one pressing question - the same question that has begun to pound in my ears and set my pulse racing at every attempt to drift off to sleep. 

Anne. My Anne with an e... are you truly  _ mine _ ? 

Was our brief meeting in Charlottetown some kind of fever dream that my brain procured to help me cope with leaving my family and home for an unknown city where I have no contacts and, especially notable, where I am hundreds and hundreds of kilometers away from the girl that I love? Or…

Or did I really find you? Was I truly allowed at long, long last to hold your face in my hand, to touch your freckled cheek, to kiss the full, pink lips on your expressive, perfect mouth? 

There goes my heart again, pounding away as I print out what was either the most incredible moment of my life thus far, or the beginnings of a steep descent into insanity. 

No, putting my memories of your ample lips on mine to paper in this way has allowed me to definitively say that I never could have imagined what happened then. Nor especially what happened next (after all, not all of us are blessed to have imaginative powers of such magnitude as a certain red-headed girl I know and love). 

Anne, my Anne; though finally convinced of the reality of our encounter, I fear that I may never sleep again. What good would the respite of sleep and dreams be when I have already lived through the height of earthly happiness?

Oh, that I could spend this sleepless night with you, Anne. 

Forgive me, that last line was much too forward. I only meant to say that I would love to be with you now so that I might ask you any of the questions that are buzzing around my head like angry bees. 

You mentioned that you have questions, and all I could think at the time was for myself: _ “How on earth are you going to leave her now that you finally have her?”  _

That question has now shape-shifted into an angry accusation in my mind; one that I am afraid you, yourself may be asking of me now. _ “How could you accost me in such a way, and then leave me without so much as a promise -- or even a forwarding address?” _

I can only pray that you have not spent the time since our meeting thinking me a cad and a bounder. I did not intend to be so… enthusiastic… when I found you at last outside of your boarding house. The only thought in my head at the time was,  _ “She loves you. She loves you. Diana said there was a letter, and in it she told you she loves you.” _

  * By the way, I never received such a letter, and admit myself wildly curious as to its advent, contents, and mysterious disappearance. I am also mortified to wonder at how long you must have thought me ambivalent toward your declaration of love… I cannot think on it for too long. It is too horrible a thought for such an otherwise incredible day.



I approached you today with the intention of speaking to you about my wishes and feelings (did… did you happen to receive a letter I left on your bedroom table at Green Gables recently?). 

As to what happened next, I can only say that the hope that lifted me off of the train and into the streets of Charlottetown did not slow or stop when I had found you at last, but instead it carried me perhaps too far in my lighthearted happiness - to think that Anne Shirley-Cuthbert might love me the way I have loved her for so, so long… 

It was a heady thing, my darling. I cannot say that I regret kissing you so eagerly (and… ahem… frequently…), but I do hope that my behavior didn’t alarm or upset you. 

Though, in my experience with you thus far, I can venture with some certainty that had my advances had offended you, you would have let me know, and most definitely not by holding my own face in your soft, small hands, and kissing me back with such… I can almost feel you in my arms now, pulling your waist close to me as you… 

Pardon me, Miss. I think I’ll go for a quick walk around the block. 

I’m back. The air in Toronto tonight is crisp and cool. Danforth Avenue is lined with tall trees, and, though nothing about this bustling city could remind me of the peaceful pathways at home, there was something to remind me of you in every breeze ruffling my hair and in each blooming tree standing tall, wild, confident, beautiful. And to be with you is to be home, my darling island dryad. 

As I rambled along the city streets, one of my favorite poems ran through my mind to the beat of each measured step I took:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

Emily Dickinson wrote those words before either of us was born, but I am convinced she knew something of love and longing and what it feels like to be at home in you, Anne. You have always been the thing with feathers in my life. When I received your letter halfway across the world, I heard your song. Its melody has been branded upon my heart - on chillest land and strangest sea, you have sung to me, asking nothing in return.

But, Anne, I have so much to give you. Everything, that is what I want for you and me. 

Only the knowledge that becoming a doctor is my life’s calling has kept me from turning around, going back to PEI, back to Charlottetown, back to you, and creating a good-enough life for us. I could attend Queens by your side, could work my family’s land side-by-side with Bash, could live a small and happy life with you by my side, Anne. I know I could. 

But medicine is the only other song that has called to me through these years, and it harmonizes perfectly with your tune, Anne-girl. You have taught me that being true to myself is a guarantee for happiness, and that my ambition and hard work can turn my dreams into our reality. I am on the cusp of having everything I have ever needed to truly make an extraordinary life, and cannot be satisfied in creating a merely-content existence for us, now. You will become the world’s best teacher, and I… I will do something important to further the cause of the good country doctor. 

Everything. I’m giving everything I have to these dreams. It will take time, distance, and I fear more patience than I have. The longing to be with you now that I have held you in my arms…

Everything. I will settle for nothing less than giving you the very best of me and everything that I can give to you and to this world. So I’ll stay here and give everything that is in me to become a man who deserves the love of the girl who is everything he ever wanted. 

More questions to come. And answers. And sleepless nights too far from you. 

But for now I will open my window wide and feel the breeze that feels like hope that feels like weightlessness that feels like Anne Shirley-Cuthbert loves me pour over me, and dream of everything that is to come. 

All my love, 

Gilbert 


	2. Remind my Heart to Beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Even in my wildest imaginings, I could never quite put myself into the roll of beloved keeper of Gilbert Blythe’s heart; object of the handsome prince’s affection. You called me yours, darling, dryad (perhaps dearest of all endearments). You called me your hope, your home. 
> 
> Everything you ever wanted. 
> 
> Oh, Gil. I won’t sleep a wink tonight, knowing your heart as I do now. As Heathcliff exclaims in Wuthering Heights, “I have to remind myself to breathe -- almost remind my heart to beat,” when I re-read your words. Not even a walk around the block could still the feelings rocketing through me at present."

Dear Gilbert, 

I look like my mother... 

This revelation is probably not astonishing - genetics tend to work that way, after all. But to  _ know  _ it. Not wonder or feel or imagine, but to  _ know _ … it fills my chest up so full that I feel as though it might burst. It feels somewhat like knowing that you are not engaged and on your way to Paris. Knowing that you were here, outside with me, just this afternoon... 

Shortly after you left my boarding house (but did you really go? Were you ever here? I suddenly know nothing, and am convinced this entire day was a dream of something I read in a fairy tale - handsome prince, stroke of twelve, carriage rides and fleeting kisses...) Matthew and Marilla arrived with a book- made by my father for my mother, and which includes his words written in his hand, and drawings of flowers. Its pages also hold a single portrait of her- my own mother made by the man who loved her. It is the most precious gift I have ever been given. I have imagined so much of my parents, but to know something, anything, is incredible. I feel more myself than I ever have before. 

I did not feel remotely like myself earlier this afternoon, however, as I raced through town to pack a bag and head back toward Avonlea so that I might tell you once and for all that I loved you, face-to-face; no letters, no misunderstandings. I felt like the brave heroine of a love story, or the doomed lover in a tragedy- I couldn’t be sure which until I had found you. But then...

Then you found me. 

You were right there. Eyes tender, breath frantic, just as my own was... and then...

It is late here. My dearest Diana is sleeping like a fairy princess under a magic spell just feet from where I sit in the flickering candlelight at a small desk which I moved next to our room’s solitary window. A window which happens to look upon a small courtyard, where I happened to have had the most astonishingly wonderful daydream as the clock struck twelve today... 

I must try to sleep. New student orientation is tomorrow morning, and I don’t want my daydreams, however enticing, to keep me from my destiny. Did I mention that my parents were teachers? Just the thought thrills me to my core. I am my parents’ daughter... and today, for one magical moment, I was the object of Gilbert Blythe’s affection. 

———————————

As I don’t have an address for you in Toronto yet, I am continuing this letter in the hopes that I will be able to send it to you soon, dear pen-pal.

I must admit that reading the words I wrote the other night in the cold light of day has given me pause - I am sorry if I was too forward and... I don’t know. Dreamy? It is so easy to get carried away with writing romantical thoughts when one is tired and happy and bathed in moonlight, don’t you think? Today’s Anne shall write her new pen-pal much more sensibly, I think. 

Yesterday morning the girls and I dressed and went to orientation, which was held in Rathaus Hall- a grand yet cold building where over one hundred of us were ushered in and sat down for a long talk about the grand history of Queens Academy, and the various programs and awards available for students. Though thoroughly intimidated by the rigorous work ahead of me, I have set myself a goal of finishing my teaching certificate in the advanced one-year program, instead of the usual two-year program. Jane and Diana have come to the same conclusion, while Tillie, Josie, and Ruby are decided “only to enjoy for as long as possible not the dusty libraries and cold marble halls of Queens, but the socials and parties and full dance cards, while squeezing an education into the spaces leftover,” according to Josie herself. 

The award for the most promising student in English at the end of the one-year course is called the  _ Avery _ , and though I am not so vain as to imagine I might take the prize, I do intend to use this time away from home to distinguish myself as much as I am able. I aim to make Matthew and Marilla proud of me. 

After lunch today, our boarding house was opened to callers. Moody, Charlie, and the Pauls came by, and we all had a jolly time sharing stories of our first day at Queens, as well as the little moments home-sickness we each have experienced. It was a jolly visit, though, toward the end, Charlie asked me if I would go for a walk around the park with him. Thankfully my beloved Diana, seeing my speechlessness at such an invitation, created a diversion by spilling her glass of punch onto my lap, allowing for my swift exit. A dress is now hanging to dry in the corner of our room, after being thoroughly scrubbed, yet the confusion brought about by that moment with Charlie has not disappeared with the punch stain on my dress.

I don’t include this anecdote to incite any kind of jealousy or decision on your part, only to ask an innocently-meant question: Gilbert, are we  _ courting _ ? 

Please know that I am blushing to the roots of my hair and tips of my toes at this question. Also know that I am perfectly happy to be your pen-pal and nothing more. I realize that we are both young, hundreds of kilometers apart, and intensely focused on our studies at the moment. I’m sure neither of us needs the distraction of a long-distance courtship right now. And yet...

Perhaps this conversation can wait until I see you next, whenever that may be. I am not used to feeling so... tentative... in communicating with you. Perhaps we can go back to arguments - I am much better practiced at fighting with you then I am at communicating matters of the heart. 

Hmm... what to start a quarrel over... 

Well, your abominable track-record of spelling errors may well be a sore spot, and certainly isn’t something I will shy away from discussing. Also, even though B comes before C in the alphabet, I am not sure that your name should have appeared before mine in the Queens Exam Results - surely our names might have shared the top line, with my name coming before yours because A appears before G, ladies first, intelligence before beauty... any of those reasons seems more than apt to me. Perhaps you know someone from the Avonlea Gazette that could print a corrected list? 

—————————————

It is late Saturday evening and the last post just brought your letter to me. I was ready to send the above missive off to Toronto now that I have your address, but, Gilbert... 

Gilbert, you have written me a love letter. A poetic, perspicuous, genuine love letter.

My heart is racing from the impact of your words, and my hands are shaking. I’m sorry if this is difficult to read, but I just... oh, my dearest love. 

Even in my wildest imaginings, I could never quite put myself into the roll of beloved keeper of Gilbert Blythe’s heart; object of the handsome prince’s affection. You called me yours, darling, dryad (perhaps dearest of all endearments). You called me your hope, your home. 

Everything you ever wanted. 

Oh, Gil. I won’t sleep a wink tonight, knowing your heart as I do now. As Heathcliff exclaims in _ Wuthering Heights _ , “I have to remind myself to breathe -- almost remind my heart to beat,” when I re-read your words. Not even a walk around the block could still the feelings rocketing through me at present. 

I penned my friendly little letter to you so carefully, uncertain as I was of the meaning of our brief but passionate meeting. I was too afraid to bring up the love letter I wrote in your kitchen weeks ago (what on earth could have happened to it? Perhaps Bash knows? I wonder at our fate had you found it on the day I wrote it...), or the letter you left on my dressing table back at Green Gables (which… oh, Gil. I would give anything to be able to read it now. I daren’t tell you of its fate until I can explain it to you in person, but I will admit with a just measure of shame that I came upon said letter in a moment of temper, and, well. You are acquainted with the sudden and terrible wrath of this red-head’s temper…). I was too afraid to hope that our passionate embraces could have meant as much to you as they did to me. 

Mostly, I was afraid to tell you how desperately I love you. I am not sure when I began to love you. I cannot tell you of the despair and longing I felt when I was sure that you loved another. Nor dare I admit to the feelings I wrestled against as I determined to be resignedly happy for you and your bright future in Paris with Winnifred. And words could never, never do justice to the feelings I experienced when I found you outside of my boarding house, when I felt your tender caress upon my cheek (though, really Gil - how  _ could _ you mention my horrid freckles when describing this very moment in your letter to me?! I am convinced that you miss our quarrels quite as much as I do - you may as well have whispered, “Oh Carrots,” as you reached for me! Unfeeling brute.), or the electricity that is your lips upon mine…

Gilbert Blythe, you asked me whether I truly have feelings for you. In case my smiling, eager kisses and promised letters weren’t enough of an answer for you, let me tell you plainly: the answer is yes. 

Now that I have made myself perfectly clear, and you have made me perfectly, incandescently happy, I will bid you goodnight. I hope you will fall asleep with your widow thrown wide again tonight, so that the enormous, overpowering amount of love and longing I feel for you will float out of my open window and across land and sea and sky on the wind, and will wrap itself tightly around you as I long to embrace you now. 

With all (yes, even these dratted freckles) of me, 

Your Anne


	3. It Perches in the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’m afraid I have a favor to ask of you, my darling girl. Would you mind it very much if I told everyone, everywhere, across all of God’s green earth, that we are courting one another? Or, at the very least, would it be alright if I told Mrs. Rachel Lynde? Which, I think you’ll agree, comes to the same thing in the end. "
> 
> __________________________________________________
> 
> Gil returns Anne's first letter.

Oh Carrots,

Hello my darling (if drattedly freckled) dryad. Getting your letter today was an oasis after days in the desert for my poor, home-starved heart. Humbling as it is, I must admit the truth: Gilbert Blythe, future doctor and would-be world traveler, is very, very homesick. Which, truly, is just another way of saying that I am desperately Annesick. 

Somehow your words quenched my thirst and gave me the strength to journey forward into the unknowns of the University of Toronto… at least for a few more days. Don’t be long in writing back or you may find that your next letter has come too late. You’ll know if this happens because, instead of being a good and brave man and doing my work here in Toronto, you’ll find me on your doorstep, hat-in-hand, begging you to run away with me and never leave my side again. 

Does my open admittance of such weakness lessen your regard for your new beau? I certainly hope not, because I’m afraid I am not done yet. 

You see… in your letter you mentioned a certain tall, impertinent young man who asked you to accompany him on a walk. 

Side note: remind me to send Diana something lovely as a token of my deep, deep gratitude, for both the punch-spilled and the verbal punching she gave me not-too-long ago.

I’m afraid I have a favor to ask of you, my darling girl. Would you mind it very much if I told everyone, everywhere, across all of God’s green earth, that we are courting one another? Or, at the very least, would it be alright if I told Mrs. Rachel Lynde? Which, I think you’ll agree, comes to the same thing in the end. 

Additional side note: just writing that I am courting you has given me such a thrill that I feel I might burst if I don’t open my windows and shout the news out to the street below. I am courting Anne Shirley-Cuthbert! Oh, also, you had asked me whether we are courting. I hope that you heard my shout over in Charlottetown and that both your question (yes!) and Charlie Sloane’s (never!) have been satisfactorily answered. Though I am certain that, should she recognize my voice, hearing my declaration has aroused nothing  _ but  _ questions for one Mrs. Lynde. 

All jests aside, I long to write to Matthew and to tell him of our courtship (you’ll note that I did not say “ask him whether I could court you,” as your permission is the only one I need), as I wish to do the proper and honorable thing here. I will, of course, await your assent before I write. 

If you say no, I will completely understand. 

However, I also hope that  _ you _ will understand when I show up on your doorstep, ready to drag you all over Charlottetown with your hand firmly in mine as I loudly proclaim how wonderful it is to finally have won your favor. We will make a few stops in particular on this courtship tour: of a particular note is our first destination - the boarding house at which one Charlie Sloane is a current resident. 

One last sidenote: you have no doubt noticed how all of my daydreams come to the same thing - you and I in the same place, talking, touching. I hate not knowing when that dream will become a reality. Sigh. But these are the thoughts of the sad man wandering the desert, not of the happy traveler who has come to his oasis. I will save them for a time when I can work up a proper brooding attitude. 

How playful this letter is turning out, when only an hour before its arrival I could be found slumped in a corner of my room, trying miserably to get through the third chapter in what is not a mere textbook, but an honest-to-goodness tome which I am meant to memorize for my anatomy course this semester. 

The human body is an incredible thing, and I am honestly enjoying my other classes: biology, chemistry, and physics. But this anatomy class. Oh Carrots, it will be the end of me - if missing you doesn’t get the better of me first, that is. 

Doctor Emily Oak has been wonderful - as my initial contact at U of T, she has taken me under her wing and helped me find the right subjects and professors to make a success of my first year here. Her medical knowledge is incredible; her research, fascinating; and I enjoy nothing more than to seek her out during office hours to pick her brain and discuss the latest in the fields of immunology and germ theory. She is so much younger than you would expect someone of her breadth of knowledge and experience to be, too! I feel very grateful to have her friendship and tutelage. 

My peers here are a serious, studious bunch. We have yet to spend much time speaking about home, friends, or interests outside of medicine, which is fine for the most part - there is so much to learn! But when I return to my room here at Sloane House (how the name rankles when I think of far-away parlors and punch-glasses!) and have a quiet moment to myself, that is when the loneliness settles in. It fills up my bones first, making my arms and legs feel heavy as stone, and then it hits my chest, where it seems to drain whatever is left - stomach, heart, lungs - leaving me hollow and aching and gasping for breath. 

I have traveled halfway across the world, but somehow being parted from you now, when I know that you love me nearly as much as I love you (desperately, wantonly), feels unbearable. I lay awake at night torturing myself with what-ifs. 

What-if I had received your letter? Or you had received mine? Thinking of the time we lost in Avonlea, when we could have loved each other up-close and for more than a few fleeting moments… 

What-if I had never had my head turned by Winnifred, who, though lovely and kind and deserving, was never anything more than a consolation prize for a heart that was given away long before she came into my life? 

I have apologized to Winnifred for the pain I caused her, but I have yet to do so to you, my Anne. Reading about your resignation to my life across the ocean from you felt like a blow to my heart. If you suffered, as I did, under the impression that your feelings for me were unrequited or undesired, I am so sorry. The truth is that I have been enamoured of you from our first meeting. I have spent a lot of time thinking about it these past few long nights, and I have come to the conclusion that I first realized that I was in love with you on my first Christmas back home, when Bash and I celebrated with you at Green Gables. 

That was nearly two years ago now - does it surprise you that I have loved you for so long? Though I was too young to understand what my feelings for you really meant at the time, that, Christmas was when I stopped being able to look away from you for long when we were in a room together, and when I started thinking of your ocean blue eyes as I lay in bed each night. 

I ignored my feelings for you, knowing that we were young; telling myself I had no idea what love really was. Then this fall, when you asked me about my feelings…  _ for Ruby _ , and then callously responded to my attempts at conversation with you on the train to Charlottetown… well… I told myself that it was high time I got over my  _ crush _ on you, and that day I asked Winnifred, whom I had met months before at Doctor Ward’s office, to tea. 

I was, in essence, a hurt child who was pretending at manhood, determined to forget the object of his  _ childhood fancy  _ when she had obviously never once thought of me as anything but a chum at best; annoyance at worst. I told myself over and over again that I was doing the right thing by courting Winnifred, even though every time your eyes met mine I was a lovestruck youth once more. 

When we danced at the schoolhouse… Anne, you were looking at me the way I had always hoped that you would. And when our hands met, with your depthless blue eyes locked on mine, I felt as though that contact was the only thing keeping my feet on the ground. 

I have no excuses for continuing to court Winnifred after that. You had given me hope where I had none, but somehow I went home, told myself I had imagined the whole thing, and forbade myself from thinking of it again. 

My regrets and apologies are enough to fill a tome akin to my anatomy text, so I will leave you with this one last thing: Anne, it has only ever been you. It will only ever be you. I told you so in the letter I left in your room (which I am sad to hear provoked your ire before you could read its contents, but as your passion is the thing I have always admired most about you, I cannot say that I am surprised. It’s those devilish freckles that must have gotten the better of you - I know that have bewitched me more than once...), and I will tell you, if you will allow me, until we are both old and gray. 

You are the only one who has ever touched my heart, Queen Anne, future teacher extraordinaire and winner of the  _ Avery  _ (as if there is a single doubt as to your winning the prize, my brilliant girl). May you rule in peace and prosperity over me for as long as there is air in my lungs, marrow in my bones, and a pulse in my veins. 

And if Charlie Sloane doesn’t like it, well, that’s just too bad for him. 

Your Handsome Prince and Obedient Servant, 

Gil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this isn't too fluffy and sentimental, but I just can't seem to help myself! I am dying to see light-hearted, happy, joking Gilbert - in love and buoyant as a young man in his position should be! Anyway, please let me know if you like it, and, as always, thank you so much for reading! Love to you all.


	4. Be With Me Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *****************************  
> I will not dignify what happened next - Cole and Aunt Jo entering the parlour, listening to my brief tale of correspondence and carriages and kisses and clock-strikes with ever-widening smirks; the three of them - Cole, Jo, and Diana - glancing sidelong at one another; their smirks deepening into smug, cat-who-caught-the-canary grins; the explosion of laughter; the “I told you so”’s; et cetra - with further detail. Suffice it to say that my friends were greatly pleased with our news. 
> 
> Darling, kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think, and it is splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world… until those kindred spirits unite together in teasing you mercilessly, that is. Sigh.   
> ***************************

To the Handsome Fool Shouting from his Window, 

You, of course, have my permission to write to Matthew and tell him our good news. You may have an uphill climb ahead of you, however, as I may have mentioned your visit to my boarding house and subsequent fervent kissing when he and Marilla came to see me last. 

Matthew was shocked, but I assured him that your intentions were pure, so long as he was alright with your kissing me like that (desperately, wantonly) oh, a few dozen more times all over Charlottetown and Avonlea and the parlour of Green Gables when we next meet. I tell you, I had no idea that Matthew could go from pale to purple in a few short moments! 

...and now that I have made  _ your _ palms sweat, I will tell you that I am just teasing. I wouldn’t endanger Matthew’s health with such details. I appreciate you wanting to do the proper thing, and whole-heartedly agree to your telling Matthew, Rachel Lynde, the man who sells newspapers on your street corner - anyone and everyone you wish - that we are courting. 

Your enthusiasm at our news has prompted a little experiment for me here… 

But first, a question. Gilbert - were you perhaps a mite  _ jealous _ when you read about Charlie’s invitation to me? I only asked because you mentioned escorting me around Charlottetown on your arm, the aim of which, it turned out, was only to go to Charlie’s home and rub it in his face! I am aghast at such childish behavior from a future doctor. 

And, to change the subject entirely from jealousy and childishness, if you do not send me a telegram  _ post haste  _ detailing the (hopefully gruesome) physical appearance of your “ _ young _ ,  _ wonderful _ ,  _ incredible _ ,  _ fascinating _ ,  _ knowledgeable _ friend,” Dr. Emily Oak, I may have to take a trip of my own toToronto in order to show off my incredibly handsome, brilliant, and apparently  _ heartless _ beau to other young doctors. 

I mean, really Gil?! Did you include that description for the sole purpose of torturing me and my frail ego? It is a good thing I love you, or I might have come to  _ hate  _ you by the end of that paragraph. 

As for my experiment, I decided to share our recent developments with my housemates over breakfast this morning. Once they had picked their jaws up off of their plates, the questions began:  _ What about the blonde? What about Paris? When did this happen? Where? How?  _ _ YOU _ _ , Anne?! _

I will admit, I was expecting that last question to be their first. That it wasn’t came as a pleasant surprise, though it still stung. 

If I’m being honest, though, I still have trouble with that one myself. _Me_ , Gil? Are you absolutely sure it’s _me_ to whom you are writing these beautiful, incredible things? _Me_ , a poor orphan girl with nothing to give you but freckles, a temper, and a fierce and wild love that I have only just discovered within me? _Me_ , who has been much more willing to argue than listen, who has given back grief when you tried to show love, who has had reason to apologize much, much more often than she has given reason for praise? I am plain of appearance (and, before you protest, let me tell you - this characterization of my physical beauty is _much_ _too_ _generous_ for some), I have no connections, and little by way of charm. How is it that you claim to have loved me for so long? 

Sigh. I’m sorry. This line of questioning is unfair to you. I will try to keep my incredulous wondering at your love for me to myself. But, as far as my experiment of sharing our news goes, all I could do to answer that last question (and, yes, of course it was Josie who asked it) was blush and deliver a bewildered shrug. And you called me  _ brilliant _ in your last missive. Hah! 

Having attained mild success my first go-round, I determined to try my experiment once more on our male cohort as they came to visit during Mrs. Blackmore’s strict visiting hours this afternoon. 

Oh Gilbert, I wish you could have seen their faces. 

Moody looked as though Christmas would never come again (“...but engagement... but  _ Paris _ !”). Honestly you may have to write Moody your next letter of apology- and I’m not sure he will find it in him to forgive you, either. 

The Pauls looked as though Josie’s last question was their  _ only _ question (beasts, I don’t know what sweet Tillie sees in either one of them). 

And Charlie… poor, poor Charlie. He turned as red as a beet, looked down at his shoes, and muttered something about emotionally barren women and friends who should know better. He didn’t speak above a murmur until the end of the visit, where he dragged his eyes up to meet mine, wished me a long and happy life as your wife (your  _ WIFE!  _ Really, Gilbert. I have no idea what is in that boy’s head), and hoped “very much” that neither of us would live to regret our choices. 

The dire warning tone of these congratulations caused Diana and I to nearly expire from laughing once the door had closed on our visitors. Truly, we have not laughed that long and hard since we got drunk on “raspberry cordial” at a ladies’ luncheon years ago (I am sure you heard some version of this story from town gossips, but I would be happy to tell you the truth of the matter the next time I see you. Speaking of which, when  _ will _ I see you next, doctor dear? I have oh, so many urgent things to tell you [and even more to show you]...) 

Perhaps in future Charlie will  _ take notice _ of a girl’s interests and feelings before he decides that she is to be the future Mrs. Sloane. 

The final testing ground for my experiment was one that I soon came to dread - especially after I told Diana about my intended destination, whereupon she burst out into a fit of fresh giggles and insisted upon accompanying me. 

Darling, sometimes a Bosom Friend is a trial, and that is the truth. 

As Rollings, Aunt Jo’s butler, seated us in her grand salon, I noticed that my hands were shaking slightly as I removed my gloves and placed them in my lap. I should have been excited to share our news! Why was I so nervous about Cole’s reaction, you may very well ask? 

In essence, my nerves were due to Cole’s assertion of long ago -- do you remember the day you caught a group of us stowing away on the train to Charlottetown? Well, that day, just after you left our group in search of Bash, Cole sidled up and smugly let me know that you had “a crush” on me. 

Dearest, sometimes having  _ two _ bosom friends is an absolute curse, and that is the truth. 

I was dreading the gloating that was coming, plain and simple. You see, at the time of Cole’s assertion, I vehemently rejected his claim, and I fear, well-intended though it was, that your last letter has proven his assumptions right. 

I hate not being right. 

I will not dignify what happened next - Cole and Aunt Jo entering the parlour, listening to my brief tale of correspondence and carriages and kisses and clock-strikes with ever-widening smirks; the three of them - Cole, Jo, and Diana - glancing sidelong at one another; their smirks deepening into smug, cat-who-caught-the-canary grins; the explosion of laughter; the “I told you so”’s; et cetra - with further detail. Suffice it to say that my friends were greatly pleased with our news. 

Darling, kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think, and it is splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world… until those kindred spirits unite together in teasing you mercilessly, that is. Sigh. 

You never did meet Aunt Jo, did you? She feels as if she has known you for quite some time now (I may have confided in her about my various squabbles with and feelings for you more than once over the years). She has asked me to invite you (well, that is not entirely true - she has  _ insisted in no uncertain terms  _ that you accompany me) to her Winter Soirée this February the fourteenth. It really is a splendid party, Gilbert, and it thrills me to imagine attending it with you. Aunt Jo says the theme this year is “Masquerade”! Doesn’t that just sound so thrilling and romantic? Diana and I have already begun to plan our masked ensembles… please say you’ll come? 

Thinking of far-off February is a balm in a way - it makes December seem that much closer. You’ll be home for Christmas, I’ll be home for Christmas… We’ve still two months until then, but maybe we can begin to plan our time together - it will give us something solid to look forward to. 

And speaking of home, once you have written your letter to Matthew and Marilla, I have a secret hope that they will invite Bash and Mrs. Lacroix over for dinner to celebrate! That way we can begin to make plans for an extra-special Family Christmas Celebration. 

Do you know, I first met Bash’s mom when I went to your house to write you my (mysteriously missing) love letter, and my first words to her were about how you and Bash were family to me… well, that, and to compliment her incredible taste in spices. The boldness of me when I am nervous - honestly, it never ceases to amaze me that you love me…  _ have loved  _ me for so long…  _ will love _ me… 

Unless a certain beautiful, charismatic, brilliant,  _ young _ doctor has already turned your head. After all, you are quite a fickle suitor, if rumor has it. Why, according to some sources, you have already broken  _ scores  _ of hearts… 

Alas, I shall enjoy being deeply, hopelessly, flagrantly in love with you while I can. Don’t be homesick, my darling - I am there with you. When you are curled up in your corner, tackling Sisyphean feats of anatomical memorization, I am there at your shoulder, pushing my own mind to conquer new heights, loaning you my pen, and sharing words of encouragement. 

We each are just where we are meant to be; where we have always been. Shoulder-to-shoulder, cheering (sometimes pushing) each other on. The world truly  _ is _ movable, Gil, and there is so much that we don’t yet know. You are gaining the knowledge necessary to be able to save people - you are going to be leading the charge toward a new frontier of medical discoveries. And I am so, so proud of you. Don’t stop. 

Sending you all of my (and Charlie’s) love,

Queen Carrots

PS I have enclosed a small gift for you- I hope you will carry it with you as a token of home, and of my love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter title from Wuthering Heights (“Be with me always - drive me mad!”) 
> 
> I am so, SO grateful to everyone who has taken the time to comment. To say that your comments make my day is the understatement of the century, and I’m so glad that I’m not alone in needing allll of the Shirbert Fluff to survive! Please let me know how you like this chapter, and thank you for reading!


	5. FROM THE CANADIAN TELEGRAM COMPANY:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> URGENT TELEGRAM FROM G. BLYTHE: 24 DANFORTH AVENUE; TORONTO, ON, M4K 1M8 to A. S. CUTHBERT: 28 BRIGHTON ROAD; CHARLOTTETOWN, PE, C1A 1T6.

TO MY HELEN OF TROY, NEFERTITI, GUINEVERE, APHRODITE, AND ELIZABETH BENNET [STOP]   
THERE IS ONLY YOU [STOP]  
NEVER DOUBT IT [STOP]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely, darling friends!   
> I’m having the best time ever writing this fic for all of you - thank you so much for reading!   
> Sorry for the short update today: I am heading out of town and, after writing 15 pages (single-spaced) of this story in four days (!!) I am excited to take a lil break and finish mapping out where I want this story to go! 
> 
> All of that bloviating to say: I hope to post the next chapter by Sunday night! 
> 
> I seriously love you all for your kind comments and generous compliments - this is the best fandom ever. Have a great weekend! 
> 
> All of my (and Charlie’s) Love,   
> M


	6. He's More Myself than I Am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ******************************************  
> "The worst part is that I am certain both Marilla and Matthew have already been peppered with these questions and more, but it seems that the sensational news of the handsome, soon-to-be doctor throwing over the beautiful debutante for the feisty, red-headed-orphan-next-door has caused a tidal wave of nonsense to wash over our community! Honestly, you would not believe the number of heads I turned on Sunday morning alone. After we had taken our pew I had to ask Marilla whether there was anything wrong with my dress - you would have thought I had marched in while twirling batons with my hair on fire, the way they all gawped! 
> 
> Dear boy, please join me in praying for news - a new minister, a schoolhouse scandal, or perhaps a shotgun wedding - anything to take hold of the gossip circles of Avonlea before you join me there at Christmastime. I honestly fear that we won’t get to speak two words to each other by the time we are done answering to our rabidly curious public.   
> ******************************************

My Darling Paris/Akhenaten/Lancelot/Ares/Mr. Darcy, 

Friday afternoon Diana and I were gathering together our belongings and heading down the stairs of our boarding house, just about to make our way to the Charlottetown Train Station for a quick weekend trip to dear Avonlea, when your _urgent telegram_ arrived.

Gilbert. I cannot describe the panic that consumed me for the brief moment before I had read your message. I was shaking like a leaf and had turned an alarming shade of white, according to Diana. 

The next moment I was bent double with laughter, trying hard to wheeze out an explanation, and then it was Diana who needed to sit down, having anxiously held her breath for my news a moment too long. 

It serves me right, I suppose, for letting jealousy get the better of me like that, but Gil, really! Surely you knew that my demand for a telegram was only in jest (though, now that I think on it, I _did_ use a few italics and exclamation points when inquiring after the appearance of Dr. Oaks - inquiries which have gone unanswered yet, I might add). As of this moment I am still unsure whether to scold you or kiss you for that cheeky epistle, but, since I cannot do either properly in this format, you shall just have to wait and see which consequence is laying in wait for you when we meet at Christmas (57 days, but who is counting?)

As mentioned above, last week Diana had asked whether I would accompany her on a last-minute trip back home for the weekend, and I jumped at the chance. I knew that the sight of dear Green Gables would be a balm to my over-studied, under-slept soul. Mid-term exams for the one-year teacher’s certificate are not to be trifled with, it turns out.

After our scare in the foyer and an uneventful train ride home, Diana and I found Avonlea in the grip of what must be the most stunning display of autumnal plume and foliage the island has ever seen. That, or my eyes, having been away from her glory and splendor for much too long, have grown unaccustomed to the usual wondrous beauty of our island. Either way, I am desperately glad to live in a world where there are Octobers. 

Matthew and Marilla were thrilled to receive us at the Bright River Station on Friday evening, and I then spent two blissful evenings under the roof of Green Gables being fed (“Oh, Anne! You’re wasting away at college! Just look at her, Matthew. Doesn’t Mrs. Blackmore feed you girls?! You’re not going back without a hamper full of every pie and pot of jam on our shelves!”), petted (“Oh, how I have missed that sound [as I heartily laughed off all of the fuss about feeding].”), and prodded (“Gilbert’s letter arrived for Matthew and I only yesterday, and, oh, Anne. We are so pleased for you...”). 

Little did I know that I had yet to run my gauntlet of inquiries, for Mrs. Rachel Lynde joined us at breakfast on Saturday morning, and _that,_ my dear, is when the interrogation truly began. 

You were right about the number of questions that good lady would have for us; I tried to answer her briefly-yet-earnestly, but after mere moments I grew weary of her visit. “How long has that boy been in love with you? Have you two been sneaking around the island together all summer? How does he account for the young lady who was on his arm mere weeks ago? What made him throw her over for you? When does he intend to propose? I have always favored a spring wedding, myself.” 

Granted, that last one was not a question - something I may have pointed out to our visitor had she waited for a _single one_ of my answers. Her curiosity could not be sated, and my patience could not endure it. I made up an excuse and escaped to visit Ms. Stacey shortly thereafter. 

The worst part is that I am certain both Marilla and Matthew have already been peppered with these questions and more, but it seems that the sensational news of the handsome, soon-to-be doctor throwing over the beautiful debutante for the feisty, red-headed-orphan-next-door has caused a tidal wave of nonsense to wash over our community! Honestly, you would not _believe_ the number of heads I turned on Sunday morning alone. After we had taken our pew I had to ask Marilla whether there was anything wrong with my dress - you would have thought I had marched in while twirling batons with my hair on fire, the way they all gawped! 

Dear boy, please join me in praying for news - a new minister, a schoolhouse scandal, or perhaps a shotgun wedding - _anything_ to take hold of the gossip circles of Avonlea before you join me there at Christmastime. I honestly fear that we won’t get to speak two words to each other by the time we are done answering to our rabidly curious public. 

The highpoint of my visit home was dinner Saturday night. Marilla invited your brother, niece, Elijah, and Mrs. Lacroix to join us, and we spent a warm, delightful evening eating, sharing stories, and laughing near a blazing hearthfire. It was the happiest I have been in weeks. Especially because, mercifully, none of them asked me a _single_ question about the status of our relationship through the course of the evening… although Bash did say, as he bid me goodnight, that he couldn’t _wait_ for us all to get together at Christmas. 

These words, on their own, do not bely any cause for concern, of course; it was only the _way_ he said it which gave me pause. Sigh. If only I could have stopped myself from that awful _blush_ that stole over me each time Bash said your name (always looking at me with a smirk as he did). Each time I colored-up his eyes simply danced with mirth and mischief. You don’t think Bash will tease us too relentlessly - in front of our families, and on Christmas day, too - do you? 

I should probably prepare myself for the worst. 

On Sunday after church I joined Diana on a walk to the outskirts of town. She had traveled home for the weekend on a mission, you see - to persuade a friend to forgive her, or at least to ask him to answer any one of her (many) carefully-crafted letters of apology to him. I can not go into all of the details here, but I am not yet sure as to the success of her quest. I waited in his family’s lovely home with his delightful siblings (as Diana had convinced her friend to walk with her out in the yard), but when, on our walk home, I asked Diana whether she was forgiven, she only sighed and said, “I suppose we shall see…” 

I wish I could have spent more time in that house in the woods - with something that smelled _incroyable_ cooking over the fire, and the children singing a jaunty tune… French is _such_ a romantic-sounding language. 

Do you know much about Acadian culture and customs, Gilbert? I realized only this weekend that I am woefully ignorant of the heritage of my Acadian neighbors, and aim to correct that if I may. 

By the time we had returned to Charlottetown Sunday evening, our spirits were much improved, and Diana and I felt ready to tackle our studies once more. More than ready - excited, even! 

That may have been due, at least in part, to the plans we had this evening to see a live production of William Shakespeare’s _Romeo and Juliet._ Oh, Gil, it was absolutely incredible. I had never been to see a performance in a real theater before tonight! And it’s left me feeling… changed, somehow. 

Diana and I attended the play with Cole and a friend of mine from school named Roy (his real name is actually _Royal_ Gardner. Can you believe that? ROYAL. Some people have all the luck. Speaking of, darling, how do you feel about the name Cordelia? Much better than plain old Anne, don’t you think?) Diana, Roy and I are in a literature class this term where we studied a few plays of Shakespeare, so when Cole mentioned that a troupe from his art school were planning a production of _Romeo and Juliet_ downtown, we knew we couldn’t miss it. 

Seeing Romeo (who was played by a dark-haired, dark-eyed young man, who brought to mind another boy I know of that description, and made my heart squeeze painfully each time he cried out in love or anguish) and Juliet (a regal young woman with long, golden hair) play out their ill-fated love story across the stage threw me bodily into the depths of despair - it was all so beautiful and tragic. I loved every moment of it, and yet…

Diana fell asleep long ago, but I have laid awake with an ever-increasing weight on my chest tonight. As the blissful excitement of the performance has ebbed away, I cannot stop myself from thinking about our own love story, and how very close we came to being as star-crossed as the two on-stage. 

This isn’t the first time our fate has struck me in this way - I spent more than a few lonely afternoons this summer imagining myself the spinster “Auntie Anne” to Diana’s beautiful, raven-haired children; telling them my tale of what never-was and might-have-been. On those tragic afternoons you were cast in the role of my one great, though tragically lost, love. 

But the truth is that I never really let myself think of _you_ then, Gil. The outline of a dark, handsome stranger took your place in my mind. I never could actually imagine you - with your unwavering friendship, your ready smile, your intelligence and passion, your curiosity and empathy… had I done that, not even my imagination could have saved me from the depth of heartache my daydreams kept me from. When I _would_ think of you, I made myself imagine you as I hoped you would be: successful, settled, and deeply happy. That always took the bitterness out of my disappointment, if not the pain. 

How is it that we went so long just-missing each other? How is it that, just when we found one another in the right place and time, we had to let go again? How can this be real when I cannot feel you here with me?

We aren’t ill-fated, like poor, sweet Romeo and Juliet… are we, Gil?

Oh my darling, how morbid my thoughts have turned tonight. I suppose it is well-past my bedtime. What I suppose I am trying to say is this -- I miss you terribly, Gilbert Blythe. 

It turns out that my island home isn’t actually _mine_ at all - it was _ours_ all along, my darling. Everywhere I went, my heart carried with it the hope that you were just around the corner. Every kind face and sweet memory made the lack of your presence more glaring and painful. There is a Gilbert-shaped hole in my heart, and going home without you only served to widen it somehow. The real truth is that I left Avonlea gladly after only a few days at home. 

Home is no longer _home_ without you there. I’m not sure it ever was. 

I hate to send this missive off to you without an ounce of good cheer or comfort in its ending. I promise to write again soon - this time without having just visited the place where I had hoped to find comfort and instead found only your absence, and then washing that feeling down with a healthy dose of doomed teenage lovers. 

Yours Down-Heartedly, 

Anne (Cordelia?) Shirley Cuthbert 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my darlings! I hope this finds you all well!  
> I'm sorry Anne is feeling so bleak right now - my girl is DRAINED and has been through a lot in the last little bit! But the best part of having a soul-mate is that they are there to pick you up when things get rough, right?!  
> I hope you will love this chapter anyway (and if you do, PLEASE let me know - I live for your kind comments and love you for all of the cheering-on you've done for me - THANK YOU!!) and can't wait to give you the next one!  
> Also, if you're feeling blue (it happens to all of us - irrepressible red-heads and girls bummed because our show is STILL CANCELLED and everyone in between), I just want to encourage you to reach out to a friend. You are LOVED, and I'm so sorry you're having a crap time.  
> Sending you all of the love! xo  
> M


	7. Boundless as the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **************************  
> "Instead of wishing away the 41 days that stand between our reunion, I have decided to begin planning our winter break in Avonlea. It is incredible to think of going home with you on my arm (instead of by my side - I think you’ll agree that this difference of a few inches feels incredibly significant in this case) for the very first time. For so long, your presence in Avonlea has been ubiquitous to me that it feels incredible to think of our being home in this new capacity. I imagine that everything old and familiar will feel brand new with your hand in mine. 
> 
> My first plan involves taking you on a tour of Avonlea when we first arrive. I realize there is little by way of landmarks that I could show you, but, you see, I had the idea that I would very much like to show you all of the places I have ever thought about kissing you around town."  
> ***********************************

(Even though a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, I’m not sure Cordelia could ever be as sweet to me as) My Anne with an E, 

Oh, my darling girl. 

We are not doomed to a faceless fate that wills us apart. Fate is not unkind and unjust for us, as it was for poor Romeo and his lovely Juliet. Darling, our story could not be more different from theirs - we have already faced the slings and arrows of miscommunication and misunderstanding and missed chances. Now we have everything on our side - time, family, friends, love. Don’t you see, my sweet girl, that there is nothing left to come between us now that we have claimed this love? Just to be able to say it - that I love you, Anne. I  _ love  _ you. It’s everything. 

Despite your lack of cheer, or perhaps even because of it, I found an infinite measure of comfort in your letter, for it so mirrors the darkest times I have felt these past months apart. This distance between us feels like physical pain - especially at night when there is nothing to distract and occupy my mind. But the space between us can’t hurt us - not really. I ache being so far from you, but then I close my eyes and conjure you here: your bright, ocean-blue eyes, your dimpled smile, your quick tongue and brilliant mind. I press your letter to my mouth, and I can feel warm, soft lips on mine. I tuck the beautiful handkerchief you sent me (Anne - it’s so perfect. When I saw the little orange vegetables stitched into the corners I laughed and laughed. How I love you, my Carrots) into my breast pocket, and hold you close to my heart. 

I do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly, and my love will not change. I am here despite distance and down-heartedness, darling heart. I am here and I love you. And I miss you desperately. 

I have thrown myself into my studies here in a way that I never have before. If I am not in class, laboratory studies, or Dr. Oak’s office,then I am in the library, meeting with study groups, or locked away in my room with books and notes and charts. My classes are all going well (yes, even the anatomy tome and I have developed a pleasant-but-tenuous working relationship) due to this exhaustive schedule. 

My work with Dr. Oak is continuing nicely, consuming and exciting. Our discussions of the work happening with antitoxins and vaccine development in Paris have led Emily to begin a new experiment that will hopefully lead to the development of a diphtheria vaccine, and she is allowing me to assist in her research! Anne - it’s everything I had hoped to find at the Sorbonne, right here in Canada. I am working toward something that could save lives- real lives, thousands of them. I have included a newspaper clipping from the Toronto Standard which briefly mentions yours truly. Well, it says, “Doctor Emily Christine Oak and her associates,” and I am one of said associates. It’s a start, and I hope you’re proud of your own “handsome, soon-to-be doctor”.

Speaking of Christine, please don’t be silly. I meant what I said in my telegram, my love. She is an excellent academic advisor - nothing more. 

The work is thrilling, but I know that part of the reason I keep myself thus occupied is to keep loneliness at bay. I continue to enjoy my cohort of first year medical students, but find that they all come from much different backgrounds than I have. I suppose that I haven’t warmed to city life as perhaps I should, while the rest of my class were born and raised in large metropolitan areas… Throwing myself into work is easier than trying to pretend that I am not still desperately homesick.

My only respite from the bustle and noise of Downtown Toronto is a large park near campus - Queens Park, funnily enough. There are some particularly beautiful trees at the heart of the park, and within this grove is my favorite place to take time away from my studies and just be. 

I haven’t intentionally compartmentalized my life so thoroughly, but it seems to be working out for me so far. I am excelling at school and staying sane - beyond that, I cannot say much for my life here in Toronto. I don’t think I’ll ever long for city life the way I do for quiet, gossip-riddled Avonlea. 

Your request for prayers for a shotgun wedding made me laugh until my sides hurt. You know, I could arrange for a shotgun wedding in town, but it would require that I visit Charlottetown in the  _ very  _ near future <insert villainous eyebrow-wiggle here>... Though I am not sure that would produce the desired effect of having less gossip about us around town. 

Your tales from home made me both happy and heartsick. I cannot wait to accompany you home in just over a month now (41 days, if my calculations are correct). Your story of blushing in the company of Bash does make me a little nervous, however. Anne, I feel I must prepare you for what is coming on Christmas day: namely Bash teasing me about having had a crush on you for, lo, these many years, and the many ways I have made a fool of myself for you. He was convinced from the moment I received your letter on the ship (okay, I  _ may _ have also told him a story or two about you before then…) that I was in love with you. 

The good news about all of this is that you are sure to have a blushing companion at your side throughout the brutal ribbing that is coming our way at our next family gathering. I hope this comforts you in some small way. I know it does, me, but perhaps that is only because I find the color pink so very becoming on a certain girl’s freckled cheeks… 

Instead of wishing away the 41 days that stand between our reunion, I have decided to begin planning our winter break in Avonlea. It is incredible to think of going home with you on my arm (instead of by my side - I think you’ll agree that this difference of a few inches feels incredibly significant in this case) for the very first time. For so long, your presence in Avonlea has been ubiquitous to me that it feels incredible to think of our being home in this new capacity. I imagine that everything old and familiar will feel brand new with your hand in mine. 

My first plan involves taking you on a tour of Avonlea when we first arrive. I realize there is little by way of landmarks that I could show you, but, you see, I had the idea that I would very much like to show you all of the places I have ever thought about kissing you around town. 

Places of note on this tour include (but are  _ definitely  _ not limited to): the schoolhouse (I hear construction is finished and, though not the original building, I plan on showing you the very spot you greeted me when I came back from my time at sea. I can close my eyes now and still see you standing there; hair shorn, eyes wide, waiting for me to comment on your appearance or letter, but all I could think was, “ _ My God _ , I have missed this girl.” And then, of course, I shall walk you to the Blackboard, where I infamously forgot the E, distracted as I was by a certain girl who was never far from my mind. Finally, we will visit the corner of the schoolhouse where I first held your hand in mine and suddenly felt as though my bones had turned to jelly and my heart would never beat it’s old, staid rhythm again. How I ever let you away from me after that one, electrifying dance rehearsal remains a testament to my pig-headed stupidity to this day); Ms. Stacey’s front porch steps (I was so close to kissing you right then and there on the night after our protest for free speech. I know you felt it, too. When you conjured Winnifred and then left me there, alone under all of the stars in the heavens, I have never felt so cold and confused in all of my life. Confused as to how I had messed up my life so fundamentally that I wasn’t able to do the  _ one _ thing I wanted more than I had ever wanted anything before); the third pew from the front on the right-hand side in the church house (I know - this one is a little… unorthodox. But on Easter weekend, as you sat there next to me - the girl who had held me in my grief, supported me in my doubts, and who had put together an Easter gathering that I knew my family would never, ever forget… I think that was the closest I ever came to kissing you, Anne. Right there, in front of the minister and Marilla and everyone. I was desperate to feel your comforting touch once more in my sorrow for Bash, my grief over Mary. And, oh, you were just so warm and beautiful - my everything); the sitting room at Green Gables (perhaps the Christmas tree will be set up in the same place it was before... perhaps we can volunteer to blow out the candles before dinner once more this year…); my bedroom (...I hesitate to admit to this one, but… well, maybe I will tell you more about all of the ways I dreamed up loving you there, late at night - try as I might to be good, to be the kind of man who could deserve a woman like you, to be your friend and only your friend)...

On second thought, perhaps it would be more expedient to take you to the places where I  _ haven’t _ imagined kissing you yet, darling. This list is getting rather long, and my bedroom here in Toronto is feeling rather warmer than it was a few moments ago. 

There. I have opened my window once more to the biting autumn winds, and I am feeling ready to speak with sense and propriety to you once more. My apologies, miss. 

I have been thinking for weeks of a gift I could send to you, my love, that would convey the depth of my feelings for you. Something you could carry with you the way I now carry your handkerchief - a talisman against doubt, fear, and dejection at the distance between us. It turns out that, though I have promised you everything, it is surprisingly hard to come up with a single object to represent so much. 

I finally have come up with the token you have doubtless found already included with this letter. 

You see, in my correspondence with Matthew and Marilla I wrote about how much I love you - your passion, your intelligence, your love of beauty and nature, your temper, your inimitable spirit. Their response to me was brief, but meaningful. Matthew wrote about the many Anne’s contained within you, and how much he and Marilla loved every one of them. He shared with me the significance of the silver bracelet he gave you for your birthday, and asked only that I support and encourage you in all of your passions and pursuits. 

I do, Anne. I always will. 

The enclosed charm is something I hope you will wear proudly on your bracelet. This tiny, silver key has great significance - it represents the power you have within you to unlock any door that bars the way between you and the desires of your heart. You are so good, Anne, and I believe your ability to be a relentless thorn in the side of anyone who refuses to amend the status quo. You have the power to change the world - to release others from the chains of tradition and inequality. Your drive and passion are incredible, Anne, but it’s your heart that makes you an unstoppable force for good in the world. 

Speaking of hearts, this little key also represents the power that you, and only you, have had over my heart from the day you attempted to brain me with your slate. I am so in love with you, dryad. 

Please accept the key to my heart - and take care to keep it with you. I would be lost without you. 

I can’t wait for Christmas. And for “Aunt Jo”’s Masquerade Party (please advise on what a boy is to do about dressing for such an auspicious occasion. I’m not sure my usual attire will suit. Also, please don’t tell “Aunt Jo” that I called her “Aunt Jo”, unless you think she would be okay with me calling her “Aunt Jo”… I may be a little nervous to meet Diana’s infamous aunt, now that I think on it). 

Speaking of friends, though I appreciate that there was no mention of Charlie in your last letter… I don’t mean to complain, but must  _ all  _ of your new friends be  _ men _ ? I don’t mean to sound jealous (ahem… again), but…  _ Royal Gardner _ ?! Please tell me he is terribly boring, poorly-read, and has a hunchback. Royal is definitely the name of a hunchback. I am certain of it. 

Take heart and take care, my darling. This distance is immense, but not insurmountable, and certainly not forever. Each day that we are parted my love for you only grows stronger, brighter. It illuminates events of the past, as well as the brilliant path that lay ahead of us. I hope you can feel its warmth and see its light from your window each night. 

Juliet, though ill-fated, knew something of the kind of love I feel for you: “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.” 

You and I are infinite, Anne. Boundless as the sea. I feel it every time I look into your ocean-blue eyes. 

Yours Infinitely, 

Gil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I peppered in a few direct quotes from the show, as well as from Romeo and Juliet. I hope you enjoy hunting them out! haha
> 
> As always, thank you from the bottom of my Shirbert-obsessed heart for reading and commenting. I have found kindred spirits in each of you, and it does my heart so much good to read your words. Thank you. Really. 
> 
> I have three more letters "mapped out" before these two come together at Christmas. I still haven't decided whether to skip over their in-person visit and stick with my little piece of epistolary fic, or whether to switch into a third-person narrative, a la Anne of Windy Poplars. Either way, I promise I'm not done with this story yet! I plan to write it all of the way through to Aunt Jo's party at LEAST (we truly were robbed when the show was put on hiatus [I refuse to admit that it has been cancelled - I have hope for its renewal! Speaking of - y'all see that billboard this weekend?! This fandom is literally incredible.] of getting to see Gil at Jo's soiree!). 
> 
> Okay, sorry for the novel-within-a-novel. Please say hey to me in the comments, and thank you again! 
> 
> Love,  
> M


	8. Dreams That Have Stayed with me Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ****************  
> Have I mentioned that thinking about kissing you has interrupted many a study session and even, once or twice, caused me to drift so far away from where I am sitting that I have been called back to earth in a most embarrassing way by professor and student alike? It is my hope, however, to become so well-practiced at kissing you by the end of Christmas break that I will be able to stay in my right mind for more than five minutes at a time, and that the thought of our lips touching will no longer be distracting, but routine, almost-boring. Do you think you can manage that, darling? 
> 
> Oh, how do you write of such things with the ease that you do? I am blushing furiously at my last paragraph or two, and my words have nowhere near the passion and power that yours do! It truly is infuriating, Mr. Blythe, that you are so very good at everything. 
> 
> Speaking of the infuriating Gilbert Blythe, since receiving your last I have found that the day we first met has been on my mind. Although you seem to have overcome any ill-feelings you may have felt for me from that day, I wanted to try to explain…  
> *******************

Dear Associate of Dr. Oaks (and dearest love of Miss Shirley-Cuthbert), 

I am writing you this letter in the sun-dappled company of the enormous red oak tree in the courtyard of Blackmore. I am bundled against the sharp November wind in my overcoat, seated on one of the tobacco-striped quilts that Mrs. Lynde sent me home with after my last visit ( _please_ never mention to her that I used her beautiful quilt thusly. I am not sure she would ever find it in her heart to forgive me). It feels as though today will be the last lovely day of autumn - before the snow begins to fall and the ground, frost, and I am determined to feel every last drop of sunshine on my skin before the sun sets and I, of necessity, say goodbye to afternoon picnics in golden sunlight, filtered through the red and orange and yellow leaves above me.

There is so much beauty to be found in times of transition, and heartache, too. Even though I know that I will no longer mourn for these delicious, crisp fall afternoons once I find the ground blanketed with snow, trees bare and sleeping, and find wonders anew in the world around me, it is still easy to feel melancholic over what I am losing. 

This feeling is the best way I have been able to describe to myself the blinding bursts of happiness and sharp stabs of aching loneliness that the past few months have brought me. I am sorry for the doubts expressed in my last letter, but I am also glad to have such a friend as you, to listen to my worries and comfort me so wonderfully. Missing home has been a difficult part of an otherwise absolutely magical college experience, but missing you… It is nice to know that you understand; that I am not alone. 

It is also nice to hear your voice in your letters - I always knew you were an excellent writer, especially after reading the obituary you wrote for dear Mary - but I never expected to be able to hear _you_ as I read your words. It is an incredibly intimate experience, if you’ll pardon my saying so, and, with your last letter, I have come to feel positively grateful to be able to communicate with you in this way, even despite the distance and doubt. 

I am also _very_ grateful to not have you around to witness my reaction to the scandalous things you write… such as your offer to come over and create cause for a shotgun wedding. Diana had to run downstairs to fetch me a glass of water after my choking laughter caused me to turn what she called “absolutely purple”. 

And then, not five paragraphs later, I found myself blushing from head-to-foot at your description of the tour of Avonlea you’re planning. Darling boy, did you really think about kissing me all of those times? I confess, I would have an easier time of taking you on a tour where I thought about cracking another slate over your head than I would of showing you the places I have daydreamed about your soft, lovely lips… although I have repented myself thoroughly of that lapse in imagination while here at Queens… 

Have I mentioned that thinking about kissing you has interrupted many a study session and even, once or twice, caused me to drift so far away from where I am sitting that I have been called back to earth in a most embarrassing way by professor and student alike? It is my hope, however, to become so well-practiced at kissing you by the end of Christmas break that I will be able to stay in my right mind for more than five minutes at a time, and that the thought of our lips touching will no longer be distracting, but routine, almost-boring. Do you think you can manage that, darling? 

Oh, how do you write of such things with the ease that you do? I am blushing furiously at my last paragraph or two, and my words have nowhere near the passion and power that yours do! It truly is infuriating, Mr. Blythe, that you are so very good at everything. 

Speaking of the infuriating Gilbert Blythe, since receiving your last I have found that the day we first met has been on my mind. Although you seem to have overcome any ill-feelings you may have felt for me from that day, I wanted to try to explain…

I’m not sure I could ever adequately convey to you how terrified I was of our little Avonlea School at first - how I wanted to fit in and make friends so badly that it felt like a weight hanging around my neck, how failure felt inevitable yet unsurvivable. Diana attempted to be my champion and guide into the political minefield of schoolgirl relationships, but… well, I had a very rocky start. After just one day it was clear that our one-room schoolhouse had become my crucible, and I was determined to make it through somehow.

The only thing I had heard about you before we met was that you were _dreamy…_ that, and decidedly _not mine_. You see, another girl at school had claimed you as her own many years before my advent in Avonlea, and according to these new and frightening rules of engagement, I was not to befriend you in any way. 

And then you showed up.

Appeared out of the mist, as it were, rescuing me and offering to slay dragons for me (really, Gilbert. How I didn’t fall head over heels for you at that moment is a mystery to this very day...). Chasing me and trying valiantly to befriend me. Bringing me apples and kindness. 

I couldn’t figure out what on earth you were doing - were you _trying_ to ruin my life and break my incredibly tenuous hold on the _one_ friendship I had managed to make in Avonlea?! Then your attention morphed into antagonizing, and all at once I had someone to take out all of my frustration and anger on - _you_! And, darling, you made it so easy, if only for that one moment. 

I felt sorry after I struck you, of course, but that only made it easier to _hate_ one Gilbert Blythe. I refused to speak your name - tried to keep from even thinking it (which, of course, was the best way to make sure that your name was never far from my thoughts)… 

I know I have already asked for your forgiveness for the many affronts my temper and tempestuousness have afforded you, but I hope that knowing what a miserable wretch I was on the day that we met will help you to forgive the actions of a poor, unloved orphan girl. Heavens, looking at that scrawny, frightened child from your perspective, it really is a wonder that you could ever have loved me, then or now. 

I first realized that I was in love with you in my bedroom, in the quiet peace of the fading light of day. Before then I had hated you, felt sorry for you, befriended you, missed you, admired you, competed against you, and felt enamored of you… but love? What did I know of love? How could I love you when we had been at such odds then, and, now, when doing so would tie you down and keep you from reaching your potential? Could that be love? 

Reading of your success at school - of the work that you are doing that could save lives and change the course of human history - made my chest swell to bursting with pride and happiness and love. Who would have guessed that loving you could be this easy, feel this good? 

And now thinking about good feelings has my mind wandering back to your lips, and perhaps it is time I get myself inside once more. 

\-------------------------------------

I am back in my room at Blackmore House now. Lily has brought me a cup of tea just the way I like it (how do _you_ take your tea, darling? It feels odd not to know), and I am in my little window nook once more. I realize that I have spent so much time loving and missing you in these letters, that I have revealed very little about my day-to-day life here in Charlottetown. 

Lily is the housemaid of Blackmore - she is kind and hilarious and warm, like the older sister I never had. She is also a deaf mute, which means that her main form of communication is sign language - a beautiful language comprised of hand-movements that I have been learning from Lily. She is an excellent lip-reader, but when I consider how difficult and frustrating it must be to have to accomodate everyone else when so few learn to communicate in the way she can best express herself… Gilbert, it must feel so lonely. I find that, though my tongue is much quicker, I am well-suited to learning sign-language. Of course, leave it to me to make sure I can talk anyone’s ear (or eye) off. 

Lily has heard all about you, though I believe I accidentally called you “bald” when I was trying to sign “handsome”, so my latest goal is to learn enough to be able to convince her that your scrumptious mop of curly hair is, in fact, a wig before she has cause to meet you. 

There, now you have heard about a new girlfriend of mine. Emphasis on the _girl_. 

Diana and I have two classes together at Queens - British Literature and Classroom Management - which is wonderful, and I have two other classes this semester without Diana. These two classes also happen to be with Roy Gardner, who is in all four of my classes and is, sadly, _not_ a hunchback, you wicked boy. Roy is perfectly lovely and a great chum - he has taken to coming by Blackmore many times a week to study with me and flirt with my housemates. He is a great hand at poetry, an excellent friend, and he is _not you_. 

I must admit, I find your jealousy absolutely endearing, darling. If I egg it on in these letters, I apologize (though not enough to actually stop provoking you). I simply cannot help myself, just as you seem unable to keep from making my heart twinge with jealousy - calling “Dr. Oak” by her Christian name now, are we? I admit, I continue to find myself curious as to her physical appearance… _hint_. 

Ruby and Josie are having a riotous time here - with beaus and dances and parties innumerable, while the rest of us struggle under the weight of our ambitious course-loads. Ruby brought us all along with her this past weekend to a Zeta Psi fraternity (a group that Moody Spurgeon [and another boy that I will leave un-mentioned two whole letters in a row] seems to have joined) dance, and I found myself a fish out of water. Why, it was only yesterday that I was learning to dance the “Dashing White Sergeant” with the _dreamiest_ boy in Avonlea, and then suddenly I am surrounded by young people all dancing the “Bunny Hug” and the “Turkey Trot” and other such mysterious nonsense. I was miles out of my league. I imagine I made quite a beguiling wall flower, though, glued to the sidelines with a glass of punch in my hand. I felt much more like a scientist observing wild animals in the jungle than I did one of the herd. 

I was asked to dance once or twice, unlike Diana, whose dance card was full almost from the moment we entered the fete. The entire thing was interesting as an anthropological experiment, but I can’t really say I enjoyed myself - it almost felt like the first day of school in Avonlea all over again! 

The _libraries_ here on campus, however. Oh, Gil. I imagine that the libraries at the University of Toronto would dwarf the humble halls here at Queens, but… _oh_ . The books that they have compiled here! And the lifetimes of human knowledge and experience and experiments that they represent! It makes me feel so small and so limitless at the same time, standing in the middle of a room with so much _life_ contained within it. 

I have read the most marvelous works, on top of the books I have been assigned to study: _Dracula, The Importance of Being Earnest, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,_ the stories of _Sherlock Holmes_ … I have been ever-so inspired to begin writing stories again, but first I will have to put down the great works of fiction I keep finding every time I go to the library in order to return my latest. I have a feeling I will be caught in this endless cycle until I have read everything of interest, and I am not sad about that fact at all. Aren’t words the most magical things?! 

For instance, your words have the power of making me feel as though I am soaring and deeply rooted at the same time. It’s a thrilling thing. Looking at our past together with the new knowledge that you saw me and loved me all of that time has this incredible ability to signify what once seemed insignificant, and color our history in a completely new light. And that light… it feels like happiness and hope and belonging - rooted and warm and happy. Then I re-read your words, touch this beautiful, perfect charm on my wrist, remember pinching myself just there after you held me, kissed me... and I am back to flying again. 

Oh, that I could take these feelings and fly on them to Toronto - if only for a day… an afternoon… even a moment. 

Twenty-nine days, my own dearest, un-star-crossed love. 

Until then, please give your beast of an anatomy textbook my best, 

Your Anne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DAMMIT I just love you all too much!! 
> 
> And I hear you, too! I will write the Christmas scene (only three more letters...) in prose, and I will TELL ALL. Promise. ;) 
> 
> Thank you thank you thank you for the lovely comments - I love you all like Gilbert loves making Anne blush. 
> 
> Please let me know you're still out there so I will have the strength to go on... and keep the suggestions coming! Namely, do y'all think I should make the Christmas story a different work in a collection with these letter? Or should I just keep on keeping on and make this work a beautiful monstrosity? 
> 
> I hope you all are well! xoxoxo  
> M


	9. Night and Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ************  
> I mean it when I tell you that my head has been useless these past few days. We have been tasked with the memorization of human bones (all two hundred six of them) in anatomy class. The test is in four days and I have been a helpless dunce at it so far. 
> 
> But beginning this letter to you tonight has given me a lightning bolt of inspiration. What if, instead of memorizing the location of some plastic skeleton in the lab, I were to memorize all two hundred six of your bones, Anne. I’m certain that I could keep their names and locations in my mind if they were yours, darling girl…   
> *************

Darling Dryad, 

Never was a tale of more woe than that of the studious young man who, upon receiving word from his lady love, suddenly and violently loses the ability to keep anything in his mop-topped head other than her words… her eyes… her lips… her gorgeous, non-vegetable-like-in-any-way hair… 

The spell that your letter has woven over me is much like the one you put upon me that very first day in the misty woods. I am now convinced that you truly are a dryad - a wood nymph, perhaps even for that very same red oak tree you last wrote me from - and someday soon you will either disappear back into the mist, or take me with you into the realm of faerie. 

May I urge you to choose the second option, dear dryad? Disappearing with you  _ anywhere  _ would be a kind of heaven...

And, of course, if you don’t, you will have to deal with the sad, searching boy roaming your enchanted wood forever more, calling out to the girl he lost. Really, there is only one choice. You won’t get rid of me easily, faerie queen Anne. 

But, of course, you knew that when you wove your spell, didn’t you? You placed it upon me that very first day, and again when you told me to “come home someday” before I went off to sea… 

I have told you that Bash was convinced that I was in love with you from the moment I mentioned your name on our steamer ship, but did I also confess to you that those three words,  _ come home someday _ , echoed in my mind during every coal-shoveling shift, every quiet moment in my hammock-bed, every time I snuck onto the deck and looked out across the vast ocean… an ocean the exact fathomless color of your shining blue eyes… 

I mean it when I tell you that my head has been useless these past few days. We have been tasked with the memorization of human bones (all two hundred six of them) in anatomy class. The test is in four days and I have been a helpless dunce at it so far. 

But beginning this letter to you tonight has given me a lightning bolt of inspiration. What if, instead of memorizing the location of some plastic skeleton in the lab, I were to memorize all two hundred six of  _ your _ bones, Anne. I’m certain that I could keep their names and locations in my mind if they were yours, darling girl… 

_ Your  _ clavicle, just beneath your neck, connecting your manubrium to your acromion… when that lovely blush spreads across your cheeks and down your neck, does it spread slowly across your shoulders as well? Where does it stop? I’ve always been curious…

The ninth rib on your left side - did my hand brush you there as we danced the  _ Dashing White Sergeant _ (also, is there  _ truly _ a dance called the  _ Turkey Trot _ ?! I would have glued myself to a wall, too. No, that’s not true. I would have glued myself to you...)? When I held your waist as you kissed me, which vertebrae did I brush my fingertips along? 

The many times that I stared over at you in the schoolhouse, glimpsing your right patella (kneecap) poke out from the hem of your dress, or your zygomatic (cheekbone), which I held when I first kissed you…  _ Your  _ femur,  _ your  _ tibia,  _ your  _ humerus,  _ your  _ phalanges… I am memorizing you without you here, Anne, and I confess that I fully intend to check my facts and figures (one figure, really) when I see you next. 

And, yes, I mean for that to sound exactly as lascivious as it sounds… 

I’m sorry - I realize that I shouldn’t write such scandalous things to you, my girl. There is something about being less than thirty days away from holding you in my arms again.... And imagining kissing frequently enough that you should ever find the act monotonous, as you had mentioned… The very thought does very  _ un-monotonous  _ things to my heart. My apologies - blame it on the spell you have me under, and not on any notion of my having had a poor upbringing or ceaselessly lecherous thoughts about you.

What I think I mean to say is, thank you for always having been a superb study buddy - then and now. With this new strategy in mind, I feel I will have those bones memorized before morning. <insert dastardly eyebrow waggle once more>

And now I’m thinking of you reading these words and blushing, and I feel like apologizing again, but also very much like  _ not  _ apologizing… perhaps I will go to bed now, and resume this letter in the morning. 

\--------------------------

Ahem. 

Hello, Anne! It’s me, your non-licentious beau, Gilbert! It’s a beautiful morning here in Toronto - cold and clear, just like my head this morning. 

A part of me wanted to throw last night’s ramblings into the embers of the fire in this, the cold light of day, but somehow I couldn’t make myself do it. I suppose I want you to know me, which means knowing the very best and brightest part of me who misses you for your mind and your words and your heart, as well as the debauched side of me that can  _ not wait to put my arms around you again _ . 

You were right - this is an incredibly intimate way to get to know each other, and I don’t regret having this time away from you if it means knowing you to your very core, and vice versa. 

...with emphasis on the  _ vice _ as of last night, apparently…

Classwork and my time in the lab are going very, very well. Some days I learn so much that I fall asleep afraid that it will leak out of my ears at night, and my first thought in the morning is to begin to recite back whatever bit of memorization or research I was working on the night before. I realize that this could sound like the beginnings of madness, and that is another reason I am  _ so  _ looking forward to the holiday break. I have four tests, two papers, and a load of experiment notes to transcribe and turn in to Dr. Oak before the break, however, so if I  _ do _ happen to have lost my mind when we meet again, at least you will know that I came by my malady honestly. 

I am driven constantly to continue on, eager to learn new things and have new experiences each day which bring me closer to my goal of knowing enough to be able to make a real difference in the lives of my future patients - even for the wider world - someday. It isn’t enough to be able to deliver a baby in a back alleyway on the streets of Trinidad or sew up a cut in the woods of Avonlea - I want to discover more and continue the cause of medicine. 

What we are working on now - it wouldn’t even treat the sick. It would actually  _ prevent  _ disease from spreading. Just thinking about it makes me eager to get back onto campus, into our research laboratory… 

A beautiful, possibly-magical girl I know once told me that I would achieve my dream of becoming a doctor if I went where my passions led me. So far, that advice has gained me the only other dream I have ever had - one that I wanted more than I have ever wanted anything before - to be the beloved of Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. So I will follow my passions (and that one remarkable girl) until they take me where I long to be. 

And since I cannot time-travel to 19 days from now, when I will be with you once more, I will stay here and learn as much as I can about my calling. 

Hmm, I like that. All my life, I have only ever had one dream, and one calling, and I feel so close to reaching them both right now. How did one country orphan get so, so lucky? 

A couple of years ago, when my dad passed away after a long, bitter fight with illness, I felt so incredibly alone in the world. I walled myself off from kind neighbors and well-meaning friends, and determined to see as much of the world as I could. I didn’t know it then, but what I had really determined to do was  _ run. _ Run from the feeling that was rising up in me, preparing to swallow me whole. The feeling of being utterly alone in the world. It was terrifying and thrilling - taking the world into my hands by running far and fast. 

I was thus drawn to sea, where I wound up finding Bash: my brother, my partner. Finding Bash meant that I wouldn’t have to be alone anymore, and knowing that he would be with me made me realize just what I was doing when I left - and just like that, onced I had faced that horrible, black feeling, I was ready to come home again. 

More than ready, I was eager, determined. I wanted to show Bash another way of life - a place where he could be free, with land to farm and work to do that he could be proud of. But that was always secondary. What I wanted more than anything was belonging; family. 

Anne, I was an orphan for all of a week before I had packed up my home and left, not knowing when I would return, if ever. 

When I consider that you probably felt that way - utterly alone, empty, uprooted - for most of your childhood… I can’t even imagine it. My heart cannot bear the weight when I try to imagine your pain for too long. You have never spoken much to me about your childhood, but I want you to know that I am in awe of you, and that your words - come home someday - were a Siren song to me halfway across the world, and they helped keep me tethered to home; to you. 

But when  _ you _ \- who has been through so much, and come away this bright, beautiful, boundless creature of light - write to me that my love makes you feel both rooted  _ and  _ winged… I cannot tell you what it does to me, my darling. It makes me feel invincible.

I am happier now, even so far from home, so far from you, than I ever have been before. And it’s all down to you. I love you, Anne. And I want to know all of you, and I swear that I will love you better each day than I did the day before. And it will be so easy to do. 

I cannot wait to hold you in my arms. I realize that I shared this sentiment earlier in this letter, but it absolutely bears repeating. I am counting not days and hours and minutes. I am counting how many breaths I have left until I can breathe you in again. 

Your Wicked, Wig-Wearing Paramour, 

Gilbert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy gang! Sooo after this chapter, I really hope you're with me with a couple of things! Firstly, that our own, sweet Gilbert is an 18 year old boy, and, therefore, he has some FEELINGS about this girl, if you know what I'm saying. Second, that LDR's are hard, and somehow get EVEN MORE DIFFICULT right before a reunion. haha
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did writing it - please shoot me a comment just to say hey or OOF or to SQUEE with me about steamy Gil -- I just might love him even more than jealous Gil!
> 
> I love you all so much. I've said it before and I'll say it again: Best. Community. Ever.   
> I hope you're all well!   
> xoxo  
> M


	10. If I Loved You Less

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **********  
> I believe that it will not surprise you a single wit, sir, to hear that I took your last letter out of the house with me instead of my coat - it kept me warm much more effectively than my coat ever could have. As I walked through the snowy streets of Charlottetown, a pathway melted around me, and the snow rebounded off of my flaming red cheeks as tiny puffs of steam. 
> 
> My darling Diana informs me, even now, that my cheeks have been so highly colored for three days straight, and that she is convinced I have become consumptive! All as a consequence of your - ahem - studious nature. 
> 
> Another consequence? Sometimes I feel as though I will perish with wanting you...  
> *************

Dear Dastardly, Debauched, Lecherous Love, 

I believe that it will not surprise you a single wit, sir, to hear that I took your last letter out of the house with me instead of my coat - it kept me warm much more effectively than my coat ever could have. As I walked through the snowy streets of Charlottetown, a pathway melted around me, and the snow rebounded off of my flaming red cheeks as tiny puffs of steam. 

My darling Diana informs me, even now, that my cheeks have been so highly colored for three days straight, and that she is convinced I have become consumptive! All as a consequence of your - ahem - studious nature. 

Another consequence? Sometimes I feel as though I will  _ perish  _ with  _ wanting you _ . Just to look into your lovely brown eyes after having read your words would, I fear, cause me to burst into flames spontaneously. The  _ hunger  _ your letter has created or caused me to discover within me - Gilbert, I’m afraid it’s truly quite indecent. 

As of three days ago, my life has become blissfully uncomplicated. I spend my days studying English literature and mathematical figures, and my nights trying to put into words (only in my private diary, and now, in this  _ very  _ private letter to you) how reading your words makes my bones feel as though they are turning to liquid (truly, they may not exist for your careful inspection by Christmas if you send me even one more letter like your last), or daydreaming about laying next to you in my bed and counting each of your eyelashes while you sleep - all while trying to manage the erratic pounding of my heart. 

I have also spent time in my library, looking for a book or a verse that could encapsulate perfectly the way I feel when I read your words. There is nothing that is quite right to express that feeling, nor the experience of laying in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about your dark eyes - how they crinkle when you smile, or, better, how they widen when you look at me for a moment too long. I think of your hands - hands that I have seen hold Delly, hold books, hold pens (sometimes for  _ much _ too long), hold together wounds - and how they held me, held my hands, my face, and I feel like I’m melting away, dissolving in the memory of you. Those moments I feel as though I will perish with wanting you there, but imagining you into being there beside me only intensifies the feeling. 

Are you proud of yourself, my darling, wicked love? You have simply undone my sense of decorum or… well… any  _ sense _ at all that I have left, in truth. I am only sorry, at the moment, that I am not quite as eloquent as you are at expressing my proclivities. Perhaps, as Mr. Knightley (in Jane Austen’s  _ Emma _ ), if I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.

Does it always feel this way, do you think? Of course, I realize that we are not the first two young people to fall in love, but sometimes I feel as though you and I are the first people in existence to ever have felt this way; felt so much. Rooted and winged in our own miraculous love. 

It is true that this feeling, more than any other, sits in stark contrast to so much of my past. Reading about your own feelings of loneliness at being orphaned stirred my heart nearly as much as your - err - studiousness stirred other feelings in me. 

I was alone in life from before even my earliest memories, and yet I have never truly been lonely in spirit. Maybe it was in defense against the very feelings that drove you to board a ship to anywhere-but-here, but something in my spirit rose up to fight against that desperate emptiness of feeling. I’m not sure how I was able to remain so entirely  _ me  _ through those long, lonely years, but I  _ do  _ know that I never truly lived until I had love in my life. Before I found a home at Green Gables, I was only pretending at life - reading everything I could, creating my own stories to fill in the empty hours and never-ending nights.

Creating a life in Avonlea with Matthew and Marilla - difficult as it was at first - has been like waking from a long, vivid nightmare to the bright light of day. And now I have this new, incredible feeling with you - another relationship that didn’t exactly start off on the best of terms, but which has come to give me another layer of home and happiness and light. 

But, Gilbert, I must admit that I still struggle to control my imagination. The one thing that carried me through years of a loveless, lightless existence is no longer struggling with carrying me away within fantastical thoughts, exactly, but… Sometimes I cannot help but imagine that the long nightmare has ended only for this new, drawn-out daydream to begin. Not the worst thought in the world, and yet its ramifications are damning. Darling, if this life is the peaceful dream after the long nightmare, it means that none of this is real. 

I cannot help but fear that one day I will awake and the prince will no longer be invested in my happiness, the Fairy God Parents will have vanished, the princess will have turned back into an orange, unloveable pumpkin. 

When I give in to my darkest fears, I worry, too, that I have no claim to this island where I have found the answer to everything I longed for as a child, not having been born here, and having spent such relatively little of my life here. This is not helped by the fact that, upon occasions which called for introductions at the beginning of this semester, Josie has taken every opportunity to point out that I’m not from Avonlea like the rest of them. 

When I read about your travels to exotic ports of call, and think about the wide-world, sometimes I feel jealous, restless. But when I think about our island, Gil… I’m so afraid that I will never be allowed to belong to it, the way I imagine it belongs to me. 

In those moments when I feel as though my fears and doubts will swallow me whole, I try to remember the experiences I have had in the past few years that I could never have dreamed up even in my wildest imaginings: the happiness and comfort of my day-to-day life, Green Gables, the closeness I share with my dearest friends, and… Gil, will you ever speak to me again if I had the audacity to call you something so prosaic as my romantic ideal - my very dearest dream come true? 

I could never have dreamed up your letters - the way you make me feel so genuinely and unconditionally cherished with only the words you write to me. 

I once asked Diana what it felt like to be divinely beautiful, feeling that I would never truly know the answer for myself. Though my reflection in the mirror hasn’t changed substantially since I asked that question, your letters make me feel as though red hair and freckles were the very definition of beauty. When I read your words I feel as if I finally know the answer to that question, and it feels…  _ incredible _ . 

Do you think that loving you would feel this delicious if you were here attending Queens alongside me? Would it be easy, loving you up close? I admit that the idea of you here, loving  _ me  _ up close, feels thrilling and completely terrifying somehow. 

I am certain of one thing at least, we would have argued much more than we have from afar. I truly have tried my best to incite an altercation, but you have been too good, too darling, for me to become properly vexed with you. I hope you haven’t gotten too out of practice with conflict in these past few months, or I fear Christmas will be a disappointment to us both. I plan on starting arguments just for the pleasure of making them up with you, and becoming a T-E-A-M once more. 

Snow is falling quietly outside, and I am supposed to be getting dressed for a winter social on campus, but I find myself wishing that I could stay here alone with these thoughts and feelings, if only for a while yet. I wish I could stay here with  _ you _ . 

Better yet, I wish I could bring you with me - you in your best shirt and borrowed cufflinks, me in my green gown, which makes me feel particularly grown up and dryad-ish - and we could dance the night away together. I’m sure that even the  _ Turkey Trot _ would be bearable with you as my partner. 

Christmas simply cannot come soon enough, and not just because I  _ desperately _ need your tutelage in Geometry once more (Oh,  _ why _ am I destined to be such a helpless dunce at Geometry?!). I imagine that the first thing I will do once I see you is hold you close, lean upon my toes in order to place my lips against your ear, and whisper, “Oh, Gil, how  _ does  _ one calculate Pythagorean’s Theorem?”

Your faithful study buddy, 

Anne

PS I’m sorry, but I must ask: when you mentioned  _ delivering a baby in Trinidad _ … you  _ were _ speaking of a hypothetical scenario… weren’t you? It was oddly specific and it has me imagining all sorts of… but, no… I’m sure you would have told the tale long before now if you had… if there had been… 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my darling Anne-girls! 
> 
> I took yesterday off, and found that I missed you all so very much that I hoped you would be okay with a Saturday afternoon update! I hope this weekend you are doing lovely, fantastical things that Queen Anne would approve of. Whatever you're up to, I hope this finds you well. 
> 
> Thank you so much (honestly, truly, really, deeply) for reading and for your warm and wonderful comments! One more quick message from Gil before we dive into the Christmas Break head-first -- I hope we are all ready! 
> 
> xoxoxo  
> M


	11. FROM THE CANADIAN TELEGRAM COMPANY:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TELEGRAM FROM G. BLYTHE: 24 DANFORTH AVENUE; TORONTO, ON, M4K 1M8 to A. S. CUTHBERT: 28 BRIGHTON ROAD; CHARLOTTETOWN, PE, C1A 1T6. 12.18.1889.

MEET ME AT THE CHARLOTTETOWN STATION AT 5PM FRIDAY DECEMBER 22 [STOP]

I WILL BE THE TRAVEL-WORN STUDENT WITH THE HUNGRY LOOK IN HIS EYES [STOP]

WE CAN TAKE THE 5:30 TRAIN TO BRIGHT RIVER TOGETHER [STOP]

PYTHAGORAS TO BE DISCUSSED IN GREAT DETAIL [STOP] 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops! did i say there was one more letter? what can i say - finals week got the best of our young lovers, and a telegram communication was necessary to make sure they didn't miss the chance to spend an extra hour together on their way home. 
> 
> i hope y'all won't mind if i hop straight into the next part of this story - i was too excited to get there to put any more angst and longing into another letter! haha 
> 
> i promise to update soon - hope you are well! xoxo  
> M
> 
> UPDATE: The beginnings of Anne and Gilbert’s Christmas reunion are now up in a new story (in a series with this one) called “Once in a Golden Hour” - I hope you will love it! 💞

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading - this fandom is incredible and I love each and every one of you so much.  
> I hope this scratches the itch of missing these two so, so terribly much - I have a lot of fun things planned for this while we wait and fight to get this perfect show renewed! You can find me on Twitter and Tumblr @uwontfeelathing. 
> 
> The title of this work comes from a line in Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë: "Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."


End file.
